Redemption in Indigo

by Karen Lord

  In fact, he reacted in much the same way as I hope you did when you heard it for the first time—and perhaps even more so, because although Paama did not have a storyteller's skills, she had the advantage of having been the one to suffer through the tale's adversities first hand. Kwame listened and felt for her. Compassion is a great amplifier of empathy, and at times it is the only thing that can make a dull story interesting.

  When she finished speaking, he remained pensive and silent, so silent that she grew embarrassed.

  'Well??t is not an ordinary tale??o doubt you think me mad,’ she said, awkwardly trying to laugh while her knife flashed and nipped off the last of the string beans in a fury of desperation and chagrin.

  'I think it is indeed an extraordinary tale,’ he agreed, and then he looked straight at her with eyes that did not judge, and continued, ‘I also think that you are an extraordinary woman.'

  The knife hung immobile for a moment as they stared at each other. Then Paama blinked and bent her head over the bowl, drawing her fingers repeatedly through the mass of beans to see if any were left untrimmed.

  Kwame cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps I can send a message to the Sisters on your behalf?'

  'Yes, thank you. That is something I must do at once,’ she said.

  But she did not get up, and he did not move from his position by the door post.

  'If I may,’ he said tentatively, ‘it might be a good idea for you to have someone about. The lawyer has enough on his plate, and I fear that others may try to harass you.'

  'Yes,’ she acknowledged sorrowfully. ‘I would feel safer with someone else about, but I don't want to drag my family into this. They have already suffered from my marriage to Ansige, and I??ell, it might be foolish, but if I could spare them this last bit I would be thankful.'

  He shook his head. ‘You don't have to trouble them. It would take a while for them to travel here, perhaps too long. I was referring to myself. After all, I'm already here, and if you have any concerns you can ask the Sisters about me??hey can vouch for me?'

  'Oh,’ Paama said, and she looked lost and deeply disappointed. ‘I??hank you, of course??ut I have to be careful. I have to watch my money—I wouldn't be able to pay you for your time.'

  Kwame looked very serious. He knew instinctively that he had to be very careful what he said next, for a woman's sense of honour and pride and independence was in many ways no less fragile than a man's.

  'I wouldn't worry about that if I were you. I've already been handsomely paid.'

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  24

  . . . and another one opens.

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  There is not much more to tell. Paama was the principal mourner at a poorly attended funeral. The worth of Ansige's property was enough to cover the debts, but the crafty lawyer played the claimants against each other by promising swifter consideration of their claim if they paid him a large enough stipend. In reality, he dragged out the process for far longer than was necessary. Paama quickly extricated herself from the situation by formally relinquishing all claim to any part of Ansige's estate, and returned to Makendha.

  We have already heard her immediate plans—debriefing the Sisters, attending her sister's wedding—so let us travel through time and skip the boring parts. Let us go forward a year or two and see what is happening in Makendha.

  When a young man marries a recently widowed woman a few years older than himself, eyebrows are knowingly raised and tongues wag. However, when an enterprising, up-and-coming young man with a successful tracking business marries a poor widow whose worthless husband has left her nothing, not even children to take care of her in her old age; and when said widow happens to be one of the most amazing cooks to be found the length and breadth of the entire continent??ell, then people mutter enviously about the sheer luck that some people have, and move on to something more scandalous so they can gloat happily over another's misfortune.

  Naturally it was Neila who thought she had made the prize catch with her merchant prince, who had by now retired from business and was making a fortune with his published poems. And, to tell the truth, Tasi and Semwe were thoroughly relieved that they had married her off so well to a man willing and able to treat her in the manner to which she thought she was entitled. Yet parents always have their secret favourites, and while Alton was the one that outsiders oohed and ahhed over, Kwame was not only their son-in-law, but the son of their heart. His steadiness and his dedication to Paama proved him to be everything that Ansige was not, and Tasi gave thanks daily that her prayers for her daughters had been answered with such accuracy and to the benefit of all concerned.

  Kwame combined his savings with the remnants of Paama's bandit gold and built a house on the edges of Makendha, halfway between the House of the Sisters and Semwe's residence. However, a small village like Makendha could not provide enough work and challenge for a master tracker. Soon he was travelling out to get work and Paama, who was still interested in seeing new places, started to accompany him. Tasi was worried at first, but Paama promised her that they would return often, and that when grandchildren came, they would all settle permanently in their Makendha home.

  Did Paama ever see a djombi again? It is certain that she kept her ability to ignore the whispers of the tricksters, and perhaps she was a little more aware than most of the reasons for someone seeming a little stranger than usual, but she did not see such marvels as in those few days of madness when she held the power of chaos. As for Kwame??ou may think that he had only been humouring her when he listened to her tale, but in truth he did believe her. Paama never spoke of it again, but the habit of trust was well established after that heavy proof, and never was it broken.

  One of the enjoyable parts of travelling was that Paama was able to visit the places she had seen so briefly before. Sister Elen was able to deduce the names of almost all the towns and cities she had seen by matching their appearance with current events—or, in the case of the raided town, history. The only place she had not seen was the house where the baccou-ridden boy lived. As for Paama's dream of the prison camp in the heart of the savannah, she and Sister Carmis agreed that it might be a dream of a possible future, and it would be better not to probe it too deeply. Savannah land was all too common in their country, and the idea of a coming war was comfortable to no-one.

  So Paama got to walk through the town that had endured the plague and the fire, and even saw the Tragedy of Olen and Mara (and yes, she guessed who and what that was about). Though she looked and looked, she could not find the street she had known in the former quarantine area, because the fire had changed all but the greatest landmarks.

  She even got to sail on a ship, fortunately in far better weather. The city where she had watched the djombi eat chocolate cake and read the newspaper was on the other side of the world, but Kwame had been eager for the adventure. The oasis with the ruined town was almost as difficult to get to, but worth the challenge. Kwame wistfully asked her whether she could remember the spot where the djombi had taken her underground to get the gold, but shifting dunes had already changed the landscape and they were forced to travel on, enriched by experience rather than treasure.

  Kwame used his time, talent, and opportunities wisely and set up a network of junior trackers so that he was able to delegate work and take contracts farther and farther afield by using his foreign connections. Paama worked as a cook wherever they went, and even when she started off in a small restaurant, she would usually end up the private chef of some rich noble who would pay her extravagantly to stop her from going to work for anyone else. They returned to Makendha periodically for vacations, and they used their money to quietly improve their modest home and its surrounding lands.

  As promised, they came back permanently when their twin sons were born, a fortunate decision, for Semwe passed away a few years later, victim to a seasonal fever that was often fatal to the old and the very young. Much to Paama's surprise, Neila invited thei
r mother into her household in the suburbs of Ahani, and Tasi went willingly??erhaps to bribe her with the promise of free caregiving if only she, too, would provide her with a grandchild. Their childhood home was rented out until it would be needed again, and Paama took over the lands and livestock.

  I cannot think that you would need to know much more about Paama's life after she gave up the Chaos Stick. You may, however, want to know more about what happened to Chance, and Patience, and the Trickster. I could tell you, I suppose, but humans are the proper study of humankind. Why should I encourage you in this inappropriate interest in beings you cannot fully understand? Let us just say that the Trickster entered the equivalent of a witness protection programme. He would emerge at a time in the future with a new identity which would protect him from the suspicion of his former adversaries and any possible retaliation from his former allies. Chance underwent rehabilitation for a similar period of time, and Patience watched over them both, but from a distance, visiting only occasionally. Senior as she was, she delegated the day-to-day observation of her charges to someone else, someone who had proven skills in the field.

  Now I have come at last to the end of the story. For some in my audience, a tale is like a riddle, to be solved at the end. To them I say the best tales leave some riddles unanswered and some mysteries hidden. Get used to it. For others the tale is a way of living vicariously, enjoying the adventures of others without having to go one step beyond their sphere of comfort. To them I say, what's stopping you from getting on a ship and sailing halfway around the world? Tales are meant to be an inspiration, not a substitute.

  Then there are those who utterly, utterly fear the dreaded Moral of the Story. They consider it an affront to their sensibilities and a painful presumption on the part of the storyteller. They are put off by the idea that a story might have anything useful to say and, as a result, all the other joys a tale has to offer them are immediately soured. I save my most scathing remarks for them. Do you go through life with your eyes blindfolded and your ears stopped? Everything teaches, everyone preaches, all have a gospel to sell! Better the one who is honest and open in declaring an agenda than the one who fools you into believing that they are only spinning a pretty fancy for beauty's sake.

  I was honest and open. Don't you remember? I told you from the very beginning that it was a story about choices—wise choices, foolish choices, small yet momentous choices—for with choices come change, and with change comes opportunity, and both change and opportunity are the very cutting edge of the power of chaos. And yet, as the undying ones know and as humans too often forget, even chaos cannot overcome the power of choice.

  I have no way of knowing which of these characters will most capture your attention and sympathy. Paama will be too tepid and mild a heroine for some, they will criticise her for dutifully caring for her estranged husband in his last days. Chance will be too cold, the Trickster too odd, Patience too distant. In stories as in life, it is an impossible task to please everybody. But before you dismiss them, I ask those who care for the weak to look at Patience and see their own professional distance, so essential for maintaining their own strength amid the trials of many. Look to the Trickster to see your eccentricities, your talent for mercy deep-hidden underneath a fearsome exterior; to Chance for your self-centredness, self-pride, and despair; and to Paama for your sense of familial duty ... and yes, I think I can get you to admit that you may not like my people, but you cannot fail to recognise them.

  Do I have more stories to tell? There are always more stories. I could tell you about how Giana grew up and became a famous choreographer who captured some of the dance and movement of Dreamland for the waking world. I could give you the amusing tale of what happened when Neila and Alton did finally have a daughter. And then there are sadder, more serious histories, like the account of the general's war, or the not-always-lucky and terribly volatile adult life of Jevan, the boy who met a baccou. I can give you any tale you like, and some that you might not like, but which would still be to your benefit.

  And yet??t is terribly dry and thirsty work, speaking these lives into the dusty air of the court, speaking for you to hear and ponder and judge. Perhaps, if you would be so kind as to contribute, I could purchase some refreshments now, find a place to rest my head later, and return to you on the morrow with my voice and memory and strength restored. Please, ladies and gentlemen, if you have at all enjoyed my story, be generous as the pot goes around, and do come back again soon.

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  Epilogue

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  i have been authorised to add this epilogue to the tale. Not only is this in order to placate that demanding portion of my audience who felt that to end with vague hints of Paama's married life was to end too abruptly, but it is also to round off the story according to my own rules. I have been hoist by my own petard, constrained by that offhand statement: the proper study of humankind is humans. So be it.

  Imagine then two humans, boys, aged about twelve years, sitting in a primitive treehouse. It lacked walls, there was no roof—in fact it was more of a treeplatform than anything else, but imaginations that can make castles out of the air can certainly build marvels on a few planks.

  'She knows,’ said the elder twin smugly. ‘That's why you're her favourite, admit it.'

  'How can you be sure?’ his brother replied, looking far too serious for a boy his age. ‘I know she worries about me. She's constantly afraid that I'll get hurt, or that people will laugh at me, but that's just her way of protecting me. It doesn't make me the favourite.'

  'Trust you to see the sunny side of things,’ came the exasperated reply. ‘If I weren't around, I swear you'd have no life at all. You think she feels sorry for you? You think that's all there is to it?'

  He pushed him roughly, half in jest, half in genuine frustration, and the younger boy, who was also the smaller of the two, almost rolled off the unbarred edge of their domain. He let out a yelp of fear and scrabbled quickly back to safety.

  'Ajit! Yao! Stop that right now!'

  Both flinched with guilt and looked around. The house was only twenty metres away, and they could see their mother looking out of the kitchen window, frowning threateningly at them.

  'Your father already warned you—no skylarking in the tree-house or down it comes for good. Do you want to fall to your death?'

  The boys looked at the grass a scant two metres below, rolled their eyes at each other, and said together, ‘No, Maa.'

  It did not satisfy her, or perhaps even at that distance she caught the eye-roll.

  'Kwame!’ she called. ‘The boys are idle.'

  'Are they?’ her husband answered. ‘How fortunate for me. I could use the help of two sturdy youngsters. Come!'

  Each shooting the other ‘this is your fault’ glares, they climbed down from the tree and walked up the hill to where their father was digging a drainage trench for the garden.

  He grinned at them. ‘The pick and spade are too big for your hands, but you can move those stones out of the way for me. Stack them over there??nd down there. We can mend the terrace with them later on.'

  The grin did not fool them; their father had a pleasant yet implacable manner, and the more pleasant he was, the less likely it would be that he could be persuaded from his path. They set to work, Yao flinching slightly in the bright sunlight now that he was out from under the shade of the tree. His father took off his own hat and dropped it, oversized and sweaty, onto the boy's head. Then he squatted comfortably nearby and occasionally pointed out where he wanted the stones placed.

  'What were you quarrelling about?’ he asked.

  'We weren't quarrelling,’ said the elder in disgust.

  'Ajit was talking about who's Maa's favourite,’ said the younger, looking with narrowed eyes at his brother from under the hat's shady brim.

  'Not about who's my favourite?’ their father said, pretending to be disappointed.

  'Oh, I know A
jit's yours,’ Yao replied offhandedly.

  The words had an odd effect. Speaking with a dangerous courtesy, his father said, ‘May I know why?'

  'Because he looks just like you,’ said Yao innocently while Ajit covered his face with a dust-whitened hand and groaned.

  'Boys, leave the stones a moment,’ said his father in a surprising gentle voice, so gentle in fact that Yao finally realised that he might have said something wrong.

  Kwame pulled the boys to sit down on either side of him and said, ‘You don't look at your own face, Yao. You're the one who looks like me, not Ajit.'

  He paused and fondly traced the line of his son's brow and jaw with his fingers. ‘My facial structure, my nose. Even the shape of the eyes is mine, though that purple colour isn't anyone's fault.'

  He tweaked Yao's nose, and the boy's habitually serious face broke into a rare smile.

  'Now Ajit doesn't really look like your Maa, but if you could only remember what your Grandda looked like, you'd realise he's the image of Semwe. Except for those hairy arms—we can't account for them,’ and he dropped a light, playful punch on Ajit's shoulder as the lad grinned up at him, his deep black eyes twinkling.

  'But I don't like this talk of favourites, and I'll tell you why. There was a man??is name was Ansige.'

  He paused for a moment and looked very thoughtful, almost sad.

  'I never met Ansige, but he was the sort of person you get to hear quite a lot about. He was the son of a chief's daughter, but his father did not acknowledge him. People say he used to pass Ansige on the street as if he didn't know him. Ansige used to eat as much as twenty men until at last he ate himself to death. At first I thought he was a weak man, a sick man, but later, after I learned about his past, I wondered if perhaps he was just hungry for recognition. I promised myself I would never do that to my own sons.'